Any half-decent professor and every mildly-aware student will tell you to never begin an essay with a definition. So I’ve begun with these two sentences instead.  

Dedicated space: A room, building, or area devoted solely to a particular purpose, project or cause.  

The term itself is relatively self-explanatory and easy to understand. A dedicated space is often necessary to promote well-being among members or participants within said purpose, project or cause. Think of it this way: if your family doctor were practicing from a different office every time you visited them, how would that make you feel?  

As it so happens, there is a purpose, project, cause, that I find myself quite attached to, one that has yet to be given a dedicated space on our university campus: the Student Recovery Community. A Student Recovery Community is a campus-based group for students who are in recovery or trying to be in recovery from addictive behaviours. Important work, as you’d agree. Necessary work, even, when you consider that approximately 1 in 10 students are living in recovery from substance use.  

I joined the Student Recovery Community at my university in October of 2019. I had never heard of an SRC before, nor was I sure that I belonged there. I was seven months sober for the first time, and the word recovery was new to me. The thought of a “recovery” identity was jarring and ill-fitting in a university environment, since a sober 19 year old is about as fun as a hemorrhoid. Unable to label myself, I was still in a persistent state of stumbling over my words when people asked why I wasn’t drinking, and I constantly felt like I couldn’t confide in anyone about what was going on inside my head.  

As I dwindled with the idea of being “in recovery” as opposed to just “not drinking”, I got put in touch with Leah*, who runs the SRC. We met for the first time in a small, windowless room in the School of Social Work. She and I sat on opposite sides of a grey table and talked for a long time about all the stigma, the frustrations, and the weird things people in recovery have in common. It was a wonderful moment of both clarity and comfort for me, because I felt less and less alone the more I talked and talked. That conversation with Leah marked the day that “being in recovery” became cool to me, interesting to me, fun even.   

The reason we had met in that dinky little room was because the SRC was brand-new back in 2019. Leah had just started it (on her own, mind you) and the university was still looking the other way whenever addiction among students was brought up. A dedicated space hadn’t quite hit the agenda yet, because the SRC was still fighting for recognition first. Nevertheless, the hunt for a dedicated space ― a place to have meetings, both big and small ― had just begun. But theoretically, Leah said, a dedicated space would hopefully be in sight soon. Until then, meetings took place regularly but sporadically across campus, in different faculty buildings, libraries, and rooms. I was invited to come as often or as little as I liked, and all I had to remember was that no matter what, I was always welcome. 

The first recovery meeting I attended, a few weeks after meeting Leah for the first time, was in a tiny meeting room at one of the university’s many libraries. I arrived 5 minutes beforehand and was greeted by a man with long-ish black hair who said his name was Noel*. We, with the other 4 meeting attendees, waited outside the door in silence until it was our time to use the rental room.  

At the top of the hour, when the recovery meeting was supposed to begin, the meeting room was still being occupied by another group. They, too, were allowed to use the room for one hour, and they had probably booked it the same way Noel and Leah had. Five minutes went by, and Noel politely knocked on the door and asked them to clear up and leave. The previous tenants were in the middle of some sort of potluck dinner, one involving steam and hotpots and large bowls, and one by one they ushered out the door, carrying their various dishes. The sheer quantity of people and stuff they had managed to fit in that tiny room was astounding. At least 15 people came out of that room meant for 8.  

“How did they fit so many people in that tiny room?”  

I have no fucking idea. The Mary-Poppins trick would’ve been useful to know, though, because the SRC found the room rather small. Our backs were hitting the walls, the ceiling felt like it was closing down on us, and there was a large, weird yellow stain on the wall that somehow made the room feel even smaller. As the meeting got started, I realized that the other meeting attendees all seemed older, wiser, and more well-versed than I was. I felt like that one kid that forgot to fall asleep at the family function and now the adults are talking about politics and I have no idea what’s happening. But as the meeting went on, I realized that, perhaps, I was simply a kid who knew a lot about politics, because I understood, and related to, way more than I would’ve cared to admit. It was nice, being among people who felt the way you do, even if they’re all big and scary. I don’t remember what I talked about during my share that day, but I remember leaving feeling good.  

Meetings were held in a different meeting room in the same library every week from then on, and I would attend when I could. And every time I did attend, I could always tell that the SRC was helping students in a great way. It was helping me in a great way.  

Then, the SRC was allowed to use a specific, restricted room in the student union building, in a slightly bigger, much nicer boardroom with a conference table and funky, new chairs. I found meetings to be less scary there, and started coming more often. But again, that space belonged to the SRC for one hour a week, and not any longer than that. Sometimes, the university granted that room to someone else, so the meetings would take place in a random other room one week. Then again another week. Still, the vast majority of the time, there was a space that belonged only to the SRC, if only for an hour.  

  

Then things reshuffled again. A dedicated space was in sight, it was said, but with little evidence suggesting so. But then! the SRC was finally given a space by the university itself. A conditional space.  

The space we were granted was a room within one of the first-year residences on campus. It was big and nice and heated, with swivel chairs and a big projection screen that Noel and I chose to glam up during meetings by screening 10 Hours of Relaxing Oceanscapes from YouTube. Sometimes, if the weather was bad, we’d put on something like Fireplace 10 Hours Full HD instead, just to fit the mood better. Meetings became more fun, at least I thought so, because it felt like a more fun place to be. I liked meetings in that room, the carpet was thick and the view out the window was nice too. Having meetings in the same place every week was soothing, and certainly seemed to have a positive impact on everyone else involved. We were simply more at peace, and could focus more on recovery.  

The room belonged to the SRC on Mondays and Fridays, which meant that Leah would drudge two duffle bags and a coffee machine around in her car for the rest of the week, and set everything up just for those two days.  

“Travelling circus” is what Leah calls it.  

The space didn’t really belong to the SRC after all. It was a classroom. It was a beautiful classroom though, with a wonderfully large pane of glass next to the door that broadcast whoever was inside to those walking around outside. I spent meetings listening while making awkward eye contact with frightened little first-years who walked by, who must’ve thought we were part of a really odd course. SRC 101, I always saw it as.  

Before meetings, Leah would update us on the impending dedicated-space situation. Sometimes, different almost-options would be made available. Other times, there seemed like there was little hope at all. Still, it seemed the university was gradually getting closer to granting the SRC a dedicated space on campus permanently, and Leah was trying her hardest to make it happen. Every week, a little update. 

As you can imagine, the collective hope for a dedicated space popped in March of 2020. From then on, meetings were attended from bedrooms, living rooms, and backyards. Every discussion was put on hold, and Zoom was the new place to be. Oddly, those Zoom links we were sent every Monday allowed us to enter the same safe space week after week. Zoom was, in some ways, the SRC’s first dedicated space.  

Despite the pandemic and its many challenges, the SRC has been growing and adapting, creating online spaces to help more and more students pursue and maintain recovery, something the university has been unable to provide one its own. And now, after 2 years, it’s time that the university steps up and acknowledges, appreciates and respects the SRC has an integral part to promote student health and well-being. As we’re expected to return to campus, the SRC once again hopes for a dedicated space. With the SRC now being larger than ever before, it’s important to demonstrate to students within the SRC that their well-being matters and is catered to. You’d think. 

I have come to find that sometimes, it’s the people with degrees and PhDs and credits beyond belief that are as stupid as a grains of sand that believe they’re alone in the desert. It has been proven time and time again that the SRC was not only a valuable resource to students, but a necessary one, and yet no one in the university administration has thought it was an amicable idea to assign it a dedicated space.  

Have you ever heard the phrase “it’s not hard to show that you care”? In this case, the university has become an impressive example of how much you can show that you don’t care about your students. I’m 21 now, and I still haven’t had a drink since I was 19. Which is miraculous, but I didn’t get there all on my own. Yet the only success of mine that matters to my university is my academic one. (As if I could get straight As if I were drunk all the time!) It has been demonstrated to me, and every other student in recovery, that the university does not care if we are sober or not. It does not care if we are well, if we are sane, if we are happy. And that’s both a shame and an abomination.  

One can only hope that this new school year will bring us better luck.  

Anyway, I have to go to the doctor’s now because all this is giving me a headache. His practice is in a shedrow barn today, so I’m super fucking excited for that.  

*Names have been changed 

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